The Rules of Psychiatry
by Kansas42
Summary: Another Grave Danger after effects post. Nick has to see a shrink before he can get back to work.


Off: So, this is the first chap of another Nick angst, post Grave Danger fanfiction that I might finish someday. I actually wrote this awhile ago but was having some troubles with fanfiction compatibility crap and now by interest isn't as strong.

I got the idea for this because of a review by Kristen999 on the last fanfic I wrote, Aftermath (a singularly unoriginal title, I'm afraid. . .there were probably six other stories called aftermath that week alone ; ) In the review, Kristen999 said that she thought the story was good but that it was unrealistic to have Nick come back to work and not be forced to see a shrink. For the story, it was sort of necessary that he didn't see a shrink, but I thought she was probably right and lo and behold, a new story idea appeared. Anyway, if Kristen999 happens to read this, you have my thanks if not my royalties since I don't actually get any.

I.

The psychiatrist's name was Doctor Everson. She was an attractive woman, mid-thirties, blonde, leggy. I couldn't see her toes to see if she had the ideal toe length, but she did have a nice smile and very pretty hazel eyes. As far as psychiatrists go, she was extremely good looking. I'd have been a lot more interested in seeing her socially if I wasn't being forced to see her professionally.

This was not our first session. This was actually our second, and I wasn't sure how many we had to go through before Doctor Everson could clear me for fieldwork. After I got shoved out of a two-story window and been stalked by a psychotic killer, nobody seemed to be that worried about my mental readiness for work, but after being kidnapped by a maniac, buried alive, and slowly eaten away by fire ants while on the job at a bogus crime scene, I guess everyone thought that I might have some issues. I've tried not to be bitter about this. I'm glad everyone's concerned, and I'm not idiotic enough to think that I'm completely over what happened two months ago. Still, I've been on paid medical leave for two months now, and I've been so sick of my house that the other night I was considering moving to a new place, just to be somewhere new.

I want to go back to work. I _need _to go back to work.

But before I can do that, I have to pass this screening. Lab policy. Lab rules.

Lab bullshit.

This is not my first trip to a psychiatrist's office. I've found out that there are rules to follow if you want to be successful in achieving a clean bill of health for whatever reason you're being forced to attend. The rules are simple. With some psychiatrists, it's ridiculously easy to get by with them. Other psychiatrists are sharper, so it's not as simple. Doctor Everson looked to be one of the latter psychiatrists.

These are the rules for outwitting your invading psychiatrist:

1.) Do not yell at the psychiatrist. Sometimes, this is a very hard rule to follow. But the less emotional outbursts you have in the session, the more likely it is that your doctor will think that you are a perfectly healthy, sane person. When your doctor tries to bait you with something personal and cruel, don't rise for it. That's what they want you to do.

2.) Do not hit the psychiatrist. That's very obviously a big no-no.

3.) Do not zone out in the middle of a session. It's very common to be engrossed in your memories or thoughts as the psychiatrist asks you their standard "thought-provoking" questions. Try to avoid this as much as possible, unless you're really okay with telling the psychiatrist what you're thinking about.

4.) Do not give out extra information unless you have to. Both psychiatrists and detectives know how to get information out of a patient/suspect by just letting said patient/suspect fill in the blanks. For example: if your doctor asks you if you have the time, you don't tell them that it's 6:30. That's giving them more information than they need to know. Instead, you tell the psychiatrist that yes, you do have the time, and leave it at that. This can be a tricky rule to follow. You have to be careful not to give out incriminating information, but you also can't appear to be withholding. Psychiatrists have a field day with patients that are withholding. You don't want to be that patient.

5.) Only lie when you absolutely have to. This is an important one. Psychiatrists are trained to catch you in lies. Let the little truths go by. Tell the doctor that you had a nightmare. Even tell her what happened in the nightmare. If you're open and honest with details about painful subjects like that, the psychiatrist is more likely to trust you to be open and honest about everything. So when you say that you haven't been having the same nightmare every night for the last two weeks, your doctor will be more inclined to believe you. It's like playing that old card game, Bullshit. Your bluffs aren't going to get called on nearly as often if you have a reputation for not bluffing.

There are other rules to be aware of, but those are the big ones. If you can remember those rules, you should be okay.

That's what I was hoping, anyway, as I sat in front of Dr. Everson.

II.

"So, Nick," Doctor Everson said to me after I had made myself comfortable on the black, leather couch in her office. "How have you been since our last session?"

"Okay," I said. Rule # 4. No extra information.

"Have you done anything exciting this week? Perhaps you've gone out to a movie, or spent time with friends and family?"

I shrugged.

Doctor Everson sighed as she looked at me. "Nick, if we're to make any progress, I need you to start communicating with me."

There it was. Rule # 4, Side B. Do not be withholding. At least, don't appear to be, at any rate.

Rule # 1 was also important here. Do not tell the doctor that you have no interest in making progress because there's absolutely nothing wrong with you. That will only assure the doctor that there is.

"I'm not trying to be uncooperative, Doctor," I said. "I just haven't done anything particularly interesting in the last week."

"Well, let's talk about work then," Doctor Everson said. "Obviously, we need to discuss it since going back to work is your primary reason for coming to these sessions. Let's start with your feelings on the matter. Do _you _feel that you are ready to go back to work?"

"Yes," I said. I wondered what she expected me to say. No, I'm just not sure I'm ready, please tell my boss that I was lying when I said I wanted to get back to work.

"And have you discussed this decision with anybody else?"

"Sure," I said. Who hadn't I talked about it with?

"And what did they think?"

I raised my eyebrows at the doctor; I couldn't help it. "You aren't making your decision on my mental health based on what my friends think, are you, Doctor?" I tried to keep my voice light, teasing. It never hurt to throw in some charm. "I sort of thought that you were supposed to be the one evaluating me."

"I am, Nick," Doctor Everson said. She smiled then, but her voice stayed serious. "And no, my diagnosis will not be based on anybody else's judgment. I'm just curious as to how your other friends and family members are reacting to your decision."

I shifted on the couch, slowly, as to make sure that she didn't accidentally read this movement as a sign of being uncomfortable. "Well, my mom's not happy about it," I said honestly, "but that's not very surprising. She wanted me to move back home the second I got out of the hospital. We've fought a little bit about it, but I told her that it's my decision to make." I smiled, but it felt lopsided and out of place. "She thinks that being a CSI is too dangerous of a career."

"Do you think it is?"

I shrugged. "Every job's got its problems," I said.

Doctor Everson leaned back in her chair. It was her turn to raise her eyebrows at me, and she did so, high, thin arches that look to be waxed regularly. "Do you think a job where you're likely to be kidnapped and buried alive on any given day is really a normal and acceptable career?"

I didn't say anything for a minute. Rule # 1. Do not get angry at the psychiatrist. The louder you yell, the more likely it is that you'll be forced to come back for another invasion into your private thoughts and life.

"It's not _normal _for a CSI to go through what I went through," I said. "It's just something that happened. I mean, it's nobody's fault."

The doctor's left eyebrow raised even higher at the point, and I knew I had made a mistake. "Nobody's fault? Surely the man who kidnapped you, the man who blew himself up. . .surely he's to blame for what happened?"

"Well, yeah," I said, a little flustered. "That's not what I meant. I mean. . I just meant that you can't go through life being scared of what's going to happen. You can't stay in your home all the time and run from shadows. That's no way to live your life."

Doctor Everson was quiet for a minute, and she jotted something down in the notebook resting on her lap. That was an extremely annoying habit that every psychiatrist I had ever been to had: they all had notebooks to jot down their thoughts on whatever it was that you just said. Personally, I thought that those notebooks were less there for their thoughts than to just rattle you into giving too much information, or maybe to make you yell at them. It was never a good idea to ask the psychiatrist what they were writing on their sheets of paper. They'd never tell you anyway.

The doctor lifted her pen from the paper for a brief moment. "What does your father think about you going back to work?" she asked, and I swore in my mind. Psychiatrists love to ask about fathers. It never fails to provoke some form of reaction in their patients, male ones, anyway.

"He thinks it's a good idea," I said. "He's proud that I'm working hard to move on after what happened."

The doctor stops writing again suddenly and looks up at me. "Are you moving on, Nick?"

"I'm trying to," I said flatly, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. "That is, if anyone else will let me."

"I see," Doctor Everson said. She wrote down a few more things and then asked, "How is your relationship with your parents?"

Rule # 1. Do not get annoyed by seemingly irrelevant questions. To a psychiatrist, no questions are irrelevant. "It's okay," I said.

"I need more details than that, Nick," Doctor Everson said. "Come on. Tell me about your parents."

I shrugged a little and leaned back into the couch. As far as couches go, it was pretty comfortable. Certainly more comfortable than the one I had at home. My friends could attest to that. Both Warrick and Greg had slept on that couch after I had gotten home from the hospital.

"My mom's a housewife," I said, not sure what the doctor wanted me to say. "She stopped working when my oldest sister was born. My mom and I get along pretty well, except for the occasional argument about visiting home more often or getting married. Getting married is a big one for her; you'd think eight grandchildren would be enough, but she won't be satisfied until her second youngest son finally settles down. Anyway, she's been married to my dad for a pretty long time now. He's a judge back in Texas, and we get along okay."

"No estrangement between you and your father?"

"Why, because it's stereotypical?" I asked back, and then mentally shook my head. Broke Rule #1. Do not yell or disagree with the psychiatrist. It never leads to good things. "Our relationship has never been really close," I said casually. I didn't want this to be a big issue. "He tends to expect a lot, and I. . .well, we've just never had a really tight bond. But we've been talking more lately and I think that's a good thing."

I frowned to myself. I could remember waking up in the hospital, terrified, my parents trying to calm me down from whatever particular nightmare I'd been having that moment. I could remember my dad saying, "It's okay, Pancho. It's okay now." He'd actually been crying; I remember how that fact hit me with such a sense of astonishment that I actually had calmed down without even thinking about it. And I remember hearing him call me Pancho before, when I was in the ground. I remember his voice as he tried to keep me calm so I wouldn't jump out of the coffin and blow us all to bits.

Only that had never happened because my dad hadn't been there. The voice I remembered was actually Grissom's, and you didn't need to be a shrink to understand the irony in mixing up my father and Gil Grissom.

"Nick?" Doctor Everson asked, and I could tell it wasn't the first time she had called my name. Dammit. Broke Rule # 2. I wasn't doing that good so far with my rules. I'd have to be more careful.

"Sorry," I said.

"That's all right," Doctor Everson. "What were you thinking about?"

Rule # 5. Tell the truth except when you need to lie.

"I was thinking about Grissom," I said. "When my team found me that night, Grissom used my father's nickname for me to calm me down."

"I see," Doctor Everson said. "Do you think of Dr. Grissom as a father figure?"

Jesus. What a question. "I don't know," I said honestly. "I did once, I think. I mean, it was really important to me that Gris thought well of me, that he believed that I was a good CSI. I guess I wanted him to be proud of me, or something." I shrugged, not at all comfortable with this particular subject matter. "Grissom kind of affects a lot of people like that. I mean, everybody wants to bend over backwards to make sure they don't disappoint him."

"Do you feel that you disappoint Dr. Grissom sometimes?"

I shrugged again. "Well yeah, sometimes," I said. I remembered being stuck in the coffin for only about the 95th time that day. My mind flashed to the tape recorder I had held in my hand, giving a sad man's version of a last will and testament. I had said goodbye to my parents; I had told them that I loved them. I had also told Grissom that I was sorry, that I knew that I had disappointed him sometimes no matter how hard I tried. I told him that I still looked up to him, that he meant more to me than just an ordinary boss. More than anything else, I was relieved that the tape was destroyed in the explosion, that nobody had to hear me as I had said my goodbyes. I didn't think I could stand the look in Grissom's eyes if he had heard all those words.

"I guess everyone worries about things like that sometimes," I told Dr. Everson, who jotted something else then. She glanced over her notes briefly and then asked a new question, one that didn't surprise me much.

"Have you spoken to Doctor Grissom about returning to work?"

"Yes," I said. No extra information.

"And what does he say about your decision?"

"He said that if I felt capable and was willing to return to work, then he would trust my judgment."

"Do you think that he meant it?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Do you think that Dr. Grissom spoke in earnest? Do you really believe that he trusts your judgment?"

I was silent for a minute. That was not a question I had been expecting, and I had to think about it before deciding to answer honestly. Don't lie unless you have to. Was this one of those times?

I decided it wasn't, though I wanted to change the subject as quickly as possible. "No," I said. "I don't think Grissom trusts my judgment, not really. He doesn't think I'm ready to go back, but he also doesn't really want to get involved."

"Does that bother you?" Doctor Everson asked. "Does it hurt your feelings that Dr. Grissom doesn't feel that you're ready?

Do not yell at psychiatrist. Do not tell her that you are sick of all these fucking questions.

Tell the truth. Save your lies.

"Yeah, a little," I admitted. " But that's all the more reason to go back to work, to prove that I am ready."

"Do you think you're ready?"

"You already asked me that," I said sharply before I could stop myself. "Yes, I feel that I'm ready to get back to work. I need to get back to work."

"Why?" Dr. Everson asked. "Why is it essential that you go back now? Why do you _need_ to go back to work?"

"Because I'm tired of being at home and feeling useless," I said. "I'm tired of having nothing to do with my time but watch old movies and read DNA textbooks. I miss my friends. I miss working. I know that's a hard concept for people who are dying for a vacation, for people who have to work, but I miss being a part of something. Being a CSI isn't just a job for me anymore. . it's not just a job for a lot of CSI's. It means more than that; it's a part of who you are, a part of who I am."

Doctor Everson nodded thoughtfully. "Is that your only reason?" she asked me.

"That's not enough?" I asked. "How would you feel if you couldn't counsel people anymore? Is doing this just a job for you, something to pay the bills, or is it a part of who you are?"

"You're right," Doctor Everson said. "Being a psychiatrist is more than just a job for me. You're right to say that I'd be upset if I couldn't help people anymore. But there may also be other reasons that you're anxious to return to work as soon as possible."

"Well, that's the big one. I don't know what else you want from me."

Doctor Everson sighed and set her notebook on the coffee table. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, and I felt myself starting to frown. This didn't look good. "Nick," Doctor Everson said, "what you went through two months ago, that was a very traumatic event."

Rule # 1. Don't say "No, shit, lady."

"And it's natural for someone who went through such a traumatic experience to have some reservations about coming back to work. In fact, I'm sure there are many people wouldn't want to come back to work at all after what happened."

I kept silent. Doctor Everson looked intently at me for a moment, and then asked, "Nick, do you think it's possible that one of the reasons you are so determined to get back to work so quickly is that you're afraid that if you don't came back to work now, you might never work up the nerve to come back? Is it possible that while you do miss work, and your colleagues, and helping out people, a good part of you really doesn't want to come back at all? That a part of you is afraid to come back?"

I looked at Doctor Everson. She was watching me carefully, her eyes serious and fixed on my face.

And here it was. The reason for Rule # 5.

Tell the truth. Unless you absolutely have to lie, tell the truth.

If I admitted that a part of me was scared to start working again, Doctor Everson would never let me go back. And I had to go back. I needed to go back.

I needed to prove I could do it. If I didn't do it now, I might never do it.

If I never came back at all, I'd be the ultimate disappointment. To myself, to my father. To Grissom.

Tell the truth. Unless you absolutely have to lie, tell the truth.

I needed to lie.

"No," I said. "I'm not afraid of going back to work. I want to go back to work."

Doctor Everson stayed quiet for a minute, watching me, her eyes moving back and forth. Finally, she nodded, sighed, and said, "All right, Nick. All right." She picked up her notebook and started to write again. I had no idea if any of my rules had helped or not.


End file.
